


compose yourself, sister

by lalalyds2



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Fluff and Smut, SPOILERS FOR SEASON 2 AHEAD, Sibling Incest, Spellcest, first fluff then smut, literally binged the entire season today and fam i am REVAMPED, s2 ep3, s2 ep5, so no smut currently
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-01-05 14:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18367649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalalyds2/pseuds/lalalyds2
Summary: so i binge-watched the entire second season of sabrina today. wrote/am writing about episode 3.can't really summarize this fic too much, because i'm really bad at spoiling things.but essentially, zelda is very sweet with hilda, and it's pretty swoon worthy, if i do say so myselfWARNING: this does contain spoilers





	1. i stole the leopard print (i'm a cheetah)

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Kate and Sam, who binged the show with me today and helped re-fuel the writing fires!!!  
> y'all are the bomb diggity dot coms <3 <3  
> also, credit to Kate for the line "A witch who can’t even say the word sex, and a sex demon." because that was their bit of genius - not mine! thanks again Kate, you da illest <3

 

It’s not easy, watching her sister cry. It’s like a hand around the heart that’s squeezing very tightly.

The breathing is staggered, the outrageous eyeshadow leaking onto cheeks and turning ever so dull.

Vivacity going gray.

It should be surprising, but it isn’t.

Hilda doesn’t break loudly.

But it still hurts, like the time little Arnie Witzer called Hilda stupid and Zelda punched him so hard in the mouth his tooth split the skin on her knuckle.

Nobody makes a fool of Hilda, except maybe herself, and Zelda when in private company.

But it’s a family’s right, no exceptions.

So when Hilda tells her that cape-and-fangs coward rejected her, there are no exceptions here either.

Only this time, she can’t punch him in the mouth.

Well.

Perhaps not.

But she won’t rule out any options.

She bolsters her sister, says an almost truth (she loves Hilda, truly, but the witch has never hunted any living thing except tadpoles in the summertime or materials for her potions).

She is honestly quite proud of how quickly her sister perks up, how Hilda responds to things _she’s_ said.

She does happen to give excellent advice.

And then the silly thing just _drops_ to the floor.

“Why are our beds so high?”

Zelda sighs, because _honestly_ , but internally she keeps the image of Hilda dropping in front of her (tries to ignore the ~~_crawling_~~ ) on repeat.

 

~*~

 

There’s only so much a glamor can do.  Clothes, it cannot.  

Hilda’s coiffed up her hair, honey gold tresses long and lush and filling Zelda with the compulsion to tug on them, very hard.

So much neck exposed.

But she won’t focus on that.

Hilda’s makeup is pretty, smokier than her cigarettes and _really_ —since when did Hilda learn to look so sultry?

It’s damningly distracting.

With great force of will, she focuses back on the clothes. Still with the floral nightie and quilted-pink atrocity. 

Oh, absolutely not.

“Is there anything in your wardrobe that’s less. . . _That_?”

Hilda blinks, the glamor blinks, and she can see just how red her sister’s eyes really are.

She tries again.

“I just mean — oh, what about that leopard number, from that party in Chicago where everyone, including you, was _sure_ the world was going to end?”

Those wide, wide eyes go wider. Then recognition. Then denial.

“Oh no, no, no, no, no. I can’t.”

“What better print to catch your prey?”

Even the glamor cannot hide her blush.

“But I wore that when I was very drunk, and a little bit thinner, mind you, and we _both_ thought the world was going to end.”

“Add a corset then.”

She can feel the frown on the back of her head even as she digs further into the closet.

Eventually, she hears the scrape of the dresser being opened, the garments being rustled as Hilda rummages.

“Found one yet?”

Zelda waves her hand, magic pulsing as the closet changes again and again, no leopard print in sight.

Part of the symptoms of being a witch — so many accumulated clothes, too little closet space.

“I found one,” Hilda says, sounding embarrassed. “Just uh. . . Keep your eyes closed for a bit.”

“I will do no such thing,” she mutters, but she keeps her back turned and eyes staunchly on the clothing racks.

She still hears the fabric fall to the floor. First, the frumpy sound of a bathrobe. Then, the soft whoosh of cotton.

She keeps her eyes trained forward, lighting upon her expected discovery.

“You can turn around now, I think.”

She doesn’t see for a second, because her eyes are turned heavenward.

But then she looks. And looks. And tries very hard to look like she’s not looking.

Black is a _very_ pretty color on Hilda.

She turns, perhaps embarrassed or just bashful, and Zelda stares much longer.

The tights show off the shapely legs, cling to that pert little ass, slide up and into the corset. Which has fabulous boning structure and golden stays. The strings are loose and dangling.

“I can feel you staring.” Hilda squeaks. “I just, need you to tie it for me, will you?”

It takes Zelda a whole five seconds to will herself to lay the clothes over the chair back (instead of dropping them on the floor), and take a couple steps forward (instead of pouncing quick and wild), and grab the ends of the strings (instead of slicing them and letting the whole business fall down).

She pulls a little harder than necessary.

Hilda keeps making these little gasps and going very breathy, and she feels as though her brain is swimming in molasses.

Her knuckles are white. Hilda’s back looks so soft, the hair covering it even softer. There’s a pulse in her fingers and between her legs that trips to the beat of her tuggings.

She ties a perfect bow, once she’s finished, tucks the ends of the string under the corset.

Her hands graze Hilda’s lower back, upper ass.

The next gasp Hilda makes is not from tightness or shortness of breath.

Hilda turns. Her lips would look so _good_ bitten.

Her chest heaves the slightest bit.

Try as she might, Zelda’s eyes keep flickering down. And when Hilda tilts her head up — oh, she hadn’t realized they were so close.

She can practically taste her sister’s cherry breath.

“You shouldn’t eat cherries on Lupercalia,” she mutters, “unless you want something to _pop_.”

“That’s kinda the point,” Hilda mutters back. “Isn’t it?”

Hilda shouldn’t blink so much. Or bite her lower lip like that. Or keep her mouth so close to Zelda’s mouth.

But suddenly, Hilda’s statement breaks the spell, and Zelda’s stumbling back.

“You’re right, and good, yes. Cerberus is a very lucky man.”

A _man_. Who is _not_ Hilda’s sibling.

She goes for the door, turns around.

She’s not sure Hilda’s look of disappointment is really there or just wishful thinking.

“Get dressed, sister.” She points to her shoes on the chair, pokes the air twice for emphasis.

“And wear the heels.”

She hears the annoyed huff and grins. Closes the door, leans back on it.

What strange desires Lupercalia brings.

If only they hadn’t already been living in her for centuries.

 

~*~

 

It seems the boys cannot take their eyes off Hilda’s assets either.

She gets it, décolletage demands attention, but _still_.

At least it boosts Hilda’s confidence. The little goose keeps wobbling in Zelda’s heels, she needs a bit of ogling to keep with her all the way to the cafe.

That proud feeling is sticking in Zelda’s chest again, growling fierce and low but also so massively turned on by the cougar image Hilda’s projecting.

She wouldn’t mind taking that image to bed.

But still, something doesn’t feel quite right with her as she watches Hilda trip walking out the door.

Her little sister is klutzy, to be sure, but this is a different sort of clumsy, some awkwardness entirely out of her natural level.

She looks like a seductress. Sexy. Exactly what Zelda told her to be.

So why isn’t it settling well in her mind?

 

~*~

 

When she comes home, turtle dove hearts in tow, Hilda’s reading on the couch, a rolling pin resting next to her.

She’s back in her cardigans and short curls, eyeshadow blue without even a hint of smoke.

Her shoes are heinous.

She looks happy and comfortable.

It clicks in Zelda’s mind, she nearly sighs as a heart sound goes:

 _Ah, yes. There’s my Hilda_.

She shares her news then, plopping the hearts down on Hilda’s book, grinning at her little sister’s glowing enthusiasm.

Stops cold as Hilda asks if she loves Faustus. She stole the man’s _baby,_ for Satan’s sake.

No, she doesn’t love him. But she does like his power.

But she wants to know about her sister’s night, why she looks so giddy and already back into her domestic dress that Zelda finds she quite likes on her now.

And then it’s out there, Hildy’s found herself an incubus.

A witch who can’t even say the word sex, and a sex demon.

How poetically ill-fitting.

But Hilda seems happy, her back-to-normal is making Zelda’s heart go an odd pitter-pat, and she’s about to accept an offer to be High Priestess.

It shouldn’t feel so much like a consolation prize, Zelda’s not even sure how she’d be losing.

But it does.

 

~*~

 

The final night of the Lupercalia, Zelda goes home tired and grumpy and still so very riled up.

Sabrina and Nick interrupted her little tryst with Faustus, keeping up her abstinence pretense until their wedding, it would seem.

That pulse between her thighs is now a pound, and she really just wants to go take bath until the scalding water competes with the burn in her cunt.

But as she walks by her door, she hears Hilda’s manic whispers.

“What in _Heaven_ are you doing?”

Hilda squeaks, nearly topples over onto the bed.

“I was, uh. . . Just practicing, Zeld.”

“Practicing?”

Hilda gestures to herself. She’s back in the cat print, and the tights, and the heels. Zelda can see the outline of a loose corset under that fabric.

She gulps and pretends it’s not a gulp.

That pulsing burn climbs to an inferno.

“I have a date with Cee, next Friday. I’d like to look my best.”

She wobbles, Zelda sees how her ankle gives.

She sighs, but with affection.

“That’s not your best look.”

It’s meant softly, but Hilda looks crestfallen at best. And then, very betrayed.

“But _you_ picked it out for me.”

“I did.” Zelda’s hands are so gentle on her shoulders, smoothing over the fabric, splaying over the terrain on her arms. “And you look. . . Ravishing. But I chose something that _I_ liked on you. I didn’t pick something that _you’d_ like on you.”

Hilda’s head nods reluctantly, thinking she’s got Zelda’s point.

“So, I’m just not glamorous.”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

Hilda rests her hand on Zelda’s forearm, and Zelda suddenly realizes how much heat is emanating off Hilda in waves. She looks genuinely confused.

“I guess I don’t know what you mean, love.”

Zelda bends Hilda’s neck a bit so she can kiss her forehead, then she walks to the closet, rummages a bit, and comes out with a rusted orange dress. She sets it on the bed, then gets Hilda’s favorite clogs, and the burnt mustard tights, and the reddish wooden beads, and a dry-leaf brown cardigan.

“That’s —" Hilda falters, smiles but still has no clarity. “But that’s _my_ favorite outfit.”

Zelda smiles at her, in her cougar dress and long hair and glamor. 

“It’s my favorite outfit too.”

Hilda laughs, disbelieving.

“But you’ve always said you hated it.”

“I thought I did,” Zelda takes the wooden beads, reaches around Hilda’s neck to clasp it closed. She watches how they rest on Hilda’s well-supported cleavage.

“But now, it’s a style that represents you. So, I’ve found I like it quite a lot.”

Zelda’s hands are still on the back of Hilda’s neck, gently scratching the flesh there. Hilda shivers and never breaks eye contact; a faint smile lifts her lip corners.

“Thank you, sister.”

“You’re welcome, Hildy.”

Somehow, yet again, their faces are very close. Hilda smells like mint this time around.

She leans closer, angles her little head so their lips are very nearly touching.

Zelda breathes shallowly, almost not at all, and the pulse in her legs is unbearable now.

If they speak, the plumpest part of their mouths will brush.

She speaks first.

“Now.” She licks her lips, knows Hilda can feel the back of her tongue rubbing along Hilda’s lips too.

“Take off those shoes. They’re _mine_ , and I didn’t say you could borrow more than once.”


	2. happy came to visit me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait, my loves!  
> shoutout to my darling S, because i love them, and thanks for listening to me whine on end about not being able to write this fic recently. you are a trooper, honey ;p <3

 

This wedding week is going to be the death of her.

Or at least someone.

From the catering, to the seating arrangements, to the party favors (she’s had to redo all of Hilda’s labeled bottles, because tags go on the _neck_ of the glass, not the middle. Obviously.), she’s been spread very thin. Arguing with her niece again is not something she needs.

Sabrina is obstinate always, but today is a whole new level of teenage ire. Once her true feelings had been aired out, she hadn’t let them go.

“You can’t marry him, Aunt Zee! After everything he’s done against me, against this family?”

Normally, such a statement would make Zelda feel she’s failed the Spellmans, but Hilda’s hand is on her shoulder and it’s only in support.

It makes her know this is the right decision to make.

“Exactly. What better way to protect us, all while gaining prominence for the Spellman name once again.”

Sabrina flounders for a moment before she finds something to add. She always does.

“But you don’t love him. I don’t think you even like him.”

Her eyes would be rolling if Hilda wasn’t massaging her shoulders. She should get married more often. The benefits almost outweigh the rest.

“We’ve discussed this already, Sabrina, lamb.” Hilda says behind her, a warning beneath her dulcet tones.

Sabrina sighs, knowing when she’s been outnumbered. It doesn’t save the sisters from her clenched-up fists and flaring attitude as she storms off.

Hilda stops the calming rubs on Zelda’s back, goes back to her usual seat to scratch some thoughts down into her Maid of Dishonor’s notebook.

Zelda misses the contact immediately.

“I’m surprised you haven’t voiced much opinion about this event as well, sister.” She says, bracing herself for more honesty.

She’s not sure why she’s asking for it, given that she might not like the answer. She won’t admit it, but Hilda’s opinion has the power to crumble her.

“I wouldn’t raise your blood pressure over it, Zelds.”

The nickname relaxes, but it’s not a real answer.

“So you don’t want me to marry him either.”

Hilda’s touch on her hand is warm.

“I want you to be happy, in whatever form you’ve decided that takes.”

Sweet sentiment as only Hilda can provide, but still so infuriatingly vague. She grips her hand tighter.

“Do you or do you _not_ want me to marry Faustus?”

She’s not sure when her voice became so adamant, or when she so desperately needed to know.

Finally, Hilda looks her dead in the eye, and the truth of it makes her glad she’s sitting down.

“I want you to marry someone you love and who can make you happy. I don’t think he can do that.”

There is a second part to that, Zelda’s sure of it, but then Hilda just shrugs.

“But if marrying him is what you want, then I want that for you too.”

A single pat on the arm, then Hilda’s slipping out of her grip and out of the kitchen.

Zelda sits alone for a long time, too long for her to afford, thinking fiercely.

Hilda wants her to marry someone she loves. Who can make her happy.

Impossible, from every angle. And no escape readily available either.

It isn’t till now that she realizes she wants one.

No.

What a childish notion.

She, Zelda Spellman, is getting married to a man she admires and receiving the position that’s calling to her.

The one she truly loves will be there beside her too, watching and supporting and silent as Zelda promises her heart to another.

There’s no changing it.

And really, it will be better this way.

She’d vowed to herself to be kinder to her sister.

She won’t lead her down any path if that path leads to hell.

 

~*~

 

She comes home from the academy to fetch Hilda and her nightgown, and truthfully, to bolster her courage.

Tonight, the Dark Lord may come for her.

She’d rather not hover in that room, waiting for hours on end.

Her house greets her with the sound of a fire crackling in the parlor, and the smell of freshly made almond cookies.

Mouth watering, she pushes open the door.

Walks into the sight of Sister Shirley “jealous, withered hag” Jackson slumped face first on the tea table and Hilda tossing perfectly good cookies straight into the fire.

“Care to explain, sister?” Zelda drawls, leaning forward over the couch.

Hilda turns to look at her, eyes as fiery as the hearth.

“We settled our differences.”

Zelda stares at Shirley.

The differences seem to have settled _indeed._

“I thought you were going to talk to her.”

“I did. It all went to plan.”

“But she’s dead.”

“Yes.”

Oh _Hilda_.

It shouldn’t send a thrill through her, that Hilda would kill someone over her, _for_ her. It shouldn’t excite her that Hilda’s ended the life of one of their own kind. It shouldn’t fill her with gushing lust that her sister’s been so violent.

But it does.

Her blood pumps wicked.

If there wasn’t a couch between them, Hilda would be ravished by now. She grips the back of it very tightly.

“H—how’d you do it?” She can’t help how breathy she’s gone.

“With a smile. And a little cyanide.”

It clicks in her mind. She laughs. Clever little sister.

“Bravo.”

The grin on Hilda’s face is so innocent, so joyful at praise, it’s easy to forget there’s a dead body between them.

And then her smile drops dark.

“ _Nobody_ messes with you. Not on my watch. Not _ever_.”

Zelda clenches her thighs together so hard, her entire body trembles.

It doesn’t keep the slick from sliding down.

She releases breath in one gust. Hilda nods, perhaps in thanks to Zelda’s gratitude. Then she nods in the body’s direction.

“What do you think? Burial or cremation for that one?”

As much as the idea of setting the bitch on fire appeals, Zelda needs some physical exertion.

Shake off the lust.

She’d prefer to do that in the form of a horizontal nature, but she’ll take anything Hilda will give her.

“Come along, sister,” she reaches out and Hilda takes her hand.

There’s a furnace between them as she leads to the outdoors.

“I have the perfect place for her.”

 

~*~

 

She feels a bit bad for sticking Shirley in the pet cemetery.

These departed familiars deserve a better burial companion than this monstrous woman.

The shovels sing as dirt flings to the side.

Hilda’s taken off her cardigan in all this effort.

The ache between her legs hasn’t abated one bit.

“I’ve chipped my manicure,” she says, once the earth has turned over into Shirley’s resting place and they’re walking back inside.

“So’ve I.” Hilda extends her fingers, checks the damage.

They’re long as they wriggle in front of her. The nails are short.

It takes all of Zelda’s will power to stop looking at them and _imagining things_.

“I suppose we should do something about that.” She muses.

She’s imagining things anyway.

“I’ll run you a bath,” Hilda says.

Really, the imagination is running wild.

“And then we can fix it.”

“I’ll do yours if you do mine?”

She’s not trying to sound like a horny teenager, truly she’s not.

“Sounds perfect.”

She will have to take care of things in the bathtub before she can face Hilda’s long fingers again.

 

~*~

 

Hilda chooses red.

She chooses black.

She wouldn’t have thought it’d be Hilda who’d wear something so daring, so flashy.

She thinks on it again, knows that of course she would. This is a witch who wore pastels to Black Mass on _multiple_ occasions. Of course she’d wear red to her own sister’s wedding and not realize how it made the bride imagine so much sin.

Hilda is innocent to her musings as she blows on the polish, trying to make it dry faster.

She reprimands Zelda for smudging the fresh painted black, because _really_ —a grown witch should know not to clench her hands right after.

She hadn’t been blowing that hard, it couldn’t tickle that much.

And fingers weren’t that sensitive anyway.

She can’t understand why Zelda “why yes Hilda, I’ve had my fair share of sex demons _thank you very much_ ” Spellman, of all people, had blushed at that.

 

 

~*~

 

One step. Two steps. Three.

Everything is coming in threes.

A hand on her stomach to prove she’s even breathing.

Her shoes click loudly on the Academy’s stone floors.

Hilda’s clogs don’t reach from where she’s perched on the bed, rustling the covers, squishing the yellow rose petals.

If it were any other night, Zelda would call it a fantasy.

If it were any other night, Zelda would tease Hilda about such a spread until they were both blushing and needing some cold air.

If it were any other night, neither of them would be here at all, and thus nothing would ever happen.

Just like every other night.

But it _is_ different tonight, she’s a bride.

A deer in the headlights, just waiting to be hit.

And Hilda is being useless.

Daring to call her scared.

Daring to question her devotion.

Daring to soothe her worries.

Damn her for being right.

Everything is coming in threes.

Her pacing. Hilda’s tapping foot. How many strides it takes to reach her side.

She’s about to be relieved, ready to ask and be _claimed_ by someone else with curly blonde hair and gentle hands, but the door is opening.

Hilda leaves her alone.

Except not.

Except worse.

She cannot blink, breathe, blaspheme.

She is frozen in the presence of her Dark Lord and about to be devoured.

The very air shivers in dark red, something’s about to descend.

In her mind’s eye, there are flashes of time when she was young, and Hilda was baby cheeked, and they ran and ran in a field of wild flowers and when Hilda tripped she’d kissed her knee and Hilda had called her the best thing in the whole wide world.

Comfort floods.

Horror quickly replaces as claws hover over her shoulder.

She says goodbye to whatever wild innocence she’d just breathed in.

She wishes Hilda was here.

She wishes, and then she doesn’t.

 

~*~

 

Zelda is saved by death. She tries not to be grateful.

When Hilda sees her again, there’s question in those blue eyes. A subtle shake of strawberry curls. A deep breathe out. Then, they worry about their boy.

She refuses to believe Ambrose had malicious intent. Isn’t sure he’s innocent though.

A leaf in the biting winds, he blows towards wherever a fathering-figured man directs him. Willing to go any length to feel like he’s enough. She mourns his internal injuries, is not sure who to pray to for his safety.

After her near visitation, she cannot pretend to desire seeking _Him_ out again anytime soon.

She wants so badly to just go to bed. To look over and see Hilda snoring. Even to go back to the Academy and bring her sister with, staying awake and close as they whisper gossip through the night one last time.

Instead, she sleeps in a bed of crumpled rose petals and silk. By herself. Untouched and uncomforted.

She clutches her own arms around her abdomen and sleeps fitfully.

 

~*~

 

She is woken by clogs on stone floors and a warm hand on her shoulder.

“Morning, Love.”

Hilda has always been a notoriously chirpy morning person.

“Hilda.”

She blames the sigh in her voice on sleepiness. Certainly not because her heart outside her chest is waking her up for what is probably the final time.

As she stretches and Hilda opens the curtains, pushing up on her tiptoes to reach the sash to fasten them back and rambling on about a big day and the bath she’s currently running for her, she feels something like longing.

She’s getting married today.

She knows she’s gaining a lot. A ceremony, a title, a husband.

She’s only gaining.

She shouldn’t feel so much like she’s losing everything.

 

~*~

 

The bath water laps lazy and milk-white against the sides of the tub.

Hilda’s hands feel marvelous on her scalp.

“Mmm...” the sound is involuntary.

Hilda’s chuckle is deep and warm.

“Are you excited for today, Zelds?”

Her lips purse. The water beads on her forearms as she pushes herself sitting up a little more.

“I’m more concerned about our nephew.”

Soapy hands on the nape of her neck, kneading out the tension.

She nearly moans again.

“Faustus’ boys haven’t found him yet. I’ll try my best to make sure it stays that way.”

Zelda says nothing, too enthralled by the bakers’ fingers pinching at coiled up muscles on her shoulder.

“But that’s beside the point,” those fingers tickle at the base of her skull. “This is _your_ day.”

She bites her lip very hard. She thought her libido had frozen last night.

Apparently, it has thawed out.

“I should be at the funeral right now.”

She stumbles somewhere in the middle of that sentence, needing to remind herself of her duties to the Church, and not how much she wants those digging fingers to be digging somewhere deeper.

The hands leave her body. She hides her whimper with a cough.

“He said not to worry about it,” a squirt of conditioner in her hair. “Said you should focus on tonight’s ceremony.”

Zelda lets out a huff. Because Faustus is being ridiculous and because those delicious fingers are massaging her head again.

“He just wants a blushing, beautiful bride.”

The hands pause.

She swears lips ghosted over her right shoulder blade. She _swears_ they did.

“I don’t know about the blushing, but you’ve always been beautiful. Always will be.”

A gasp happens.

It sounds like one of hers.

Then Hilda dumps water over her head.

Hilda snorts at her surprise and claims it’s the only way to wash out conditioner.

Zelda wonders how you can simultaneously want to shag and strangle someone at the very same time.

 

~*~

 

Her wedding is going down in history. Not exactly for the reasons she’d planned for.

Her veil is lost somewhere in the pews of the Church.

Her nephew is lost somewhere in a cell. She’s not sure she can save him. The thought is twisting her heart into something desperate.

She still marries Faustus, without pomp or ceremony or her sister there with her.

She hopes it will soften him to reason. His lips are hard on hers, his mind even harder.

He sends her to repack for their honeymoon, there is no negotiating for her nephew’s life tonight.

She can barely look at Sabrina when she leaves.

She decidedly _only_ looks at her. Not at a certain bereft sister.

It is a brief satisfaction to spite her niece, because Sabrina has been so unbearably teenager recently. The girl had dared to steal her own father’s image (a terrible injustice, the dead should stay sleeping unseen unless they choose otherwise) to prove some pointless point—and for what?

To throw a wrench in Zelda’s works?

Not today, Sabrina.

She is nearly smug at the thought.

Then she looks at Hilda.

The grin drops.

She leaves to go pack.

It’s not till she’s almost all the way down the hall when she realizes her cheeks are wet.

 

~*~

 

She’s nearly finished when she hears the door creak open. Closes with a weak little click.

She doesn’t turn around, feeling far too annoyed for someone about to go on her honeymoon.

“For the third time, I don’t need help. Tell Faustus I’m nearly finished, so stop hovering.” She snaps.

“Well, good, ‘cause I’m not really here to help.” Comes Hilda’s voice.

She whirls around.

Hilda’s out of her Maid of Dishonor garb, back in that black dress with the outrageously pink lapels.

She wants to fist them tight and never let her little sister go.

“Although I certainly wouldn’t mind.” Hilda adds, her blonde head ducking down, unsure fingers plucking at her jacket’s hem.

She looks up and Zelda feels pierced.

“No, Hilda. I’m fine.”

She tries a smile. Hilda frowns.

“Are you?”

It drops.

“I’m married. I’m ecstatic.”

Hilda nods. They both decide to ignore the lie.

She steps forward, something sparkly in her hand.

“I have a present for you. I meant to give it to you before the ceremony, but I forgot. What with Ambrose and all.”

Zelda takes it.

It’s a hair pin, silver and squiggly, a tiny blue gemstone at the tip.

“I know it’s _mortal_ tradition,” Hilda says, bottom lip bitten from nerves. “But I thought it was nice. Something old, something new...”

“And what would those be?” She asks. She shouldn’t be, but she’s smiling like a fool and she’s not sure why.

Hilda takes it as a sign, reaches up to put it in her hair, secures a few errant curls.

“The new is married life. The old is me, though I’m not _that_ old.”

Hilda’s wink pulls a laugh from her, quite against her will really. She’d been so set on feeling miserable.

Those gentle hands haven’t left yet.

“You’re younger than me, Hildie.”

“Yes, well I’m not daft enough to be pointing that out _myself_ now, am I?”

Their gaze hasn’t wavered.

It’s some strange unknown magic, how they always seem to end up so much closer than she’d thought.

“So,” Zelda’s breath fans against Hilda’s soft curls. “What’s the something borrowed?”

Hilda looks sheepish, hands starting to fall away as she shrugs.

“Hadn’t thought that one yet, sorry. I, erm... didn’t know what you’d even want.”

There’s distance again and she just can’t take it anymore.

To hell with hell and the Dark Lord and _never_ getting what she wants. 

Zelda surges forward, fast enough for Hilda’s eyes to go wild, soft enough to cup her face, black-tipped fingers tangling into blonde.

“Let me then, just this once.”

She’s pleading, begging, can hear it whining in her own voice.

She doesn’t give a single damn.

“ _Please_.”

Hilda understands. Nods once.

“Alright.”

She kisses Hilda.

There is hallelujah in the mouth.

There is symphony.

There is yes.

“I had to know,” she sighs against those cherry full lips, kissing them twice over. “I just had to, and I’m not sorry.”

“Know what?”

Hilda sounds so good breathy.

“What you taste like.”

Hilda spears her tongue into Zelda’s mouth, she sighs for the effort and for the raspberry tongue tip licking against her own.

“What you feel like against me.”

She bends her knee between Hilda’s legs.

Fabric swishes amorous.

Hilda’s gasp into her is like mermaid song. There’s wet heat on her thigh.

“If I’ll ever be able to stop.”

From the way Hilda’s grinding down, her body so warm against Zelda, her hand so gently desperate on her neck, it doesn’t seem she wants her to stop.

Zelda bites her lower lip. Relishes the squeal vibrating between them.

“I won’t be able to.”

For some reason, that breaks it.

Hilda slows, though her lips linger, brush along her chin as she settles back down.

Zelda cannot reign in her anguished whimper when Hilda takes her sister’s arms from around her waist and puts them back down at her sides.

“Zelds,” the words are equally painful. “You’re married now.”

She shakes her head, feels like a child. Feels like a terrible wife. Does not care at all.

“I’m yours.”

Something twists in Hilda’s eyes. Her smile is so shattered. The kindness is terrible.

“You’re not.”

 

~*~

 

She walks behind Faustus.

Can only cast one glance at her sister and Sabrina.

Hilda’s biting her upper lip.

Zelda hasn’t gotten to bite that part yet.

She blinks away tears.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have borrowed, shouldn’t have learned Hilda at all.

You cannot miss what you have not had.

Now she’s had, but only a taste.

The yearning is so much stronger now.

She’s still not sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have finals this week and the next, but after that, i should be able to flood y'all with more nonsense. i hope you're prepared ;)


	3. one literal hell of an ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mini-warning: very long chapter ahead  
> i will edit it later. mebbe.

It’s all in the waltz.

One two three, one two three.

Isn’t it a treat? Be sweet.

Zelda’s form twirls and wears pastel. Zelda’s mouth smiles. Zelda’s hands hold at an angle and curl pretty as her husband commands.

Zelda’s body, in pieces.

Controlled by a tune and a masculine voice.

She herself is fuzzy, yielding under the sway of a music box, eyes open and unblinking as the nightmare keeps waking.

One two three, one two three.

Be sweet.  Be sweet.

 

~*~

 

It’s only the first night in Italy.

He reaches for her and she doesn’t flinch. His nails snag on her hair as he pulls out pins.

“Those cannot be comfortable after such a long day.”

His voice a lullaby, soothing and saccharine and quite honestly sincere.

He is happy.

The neurons in her brain complain that her cheeks hurt.

She keeps smiling. He keeps pulling out pins.

“Did you like tonight’s dancing?”

He doesn’t frown as his hands catch a tangle. Simply tugs. Several strands come away on his wedding ring. She feels the sting. Her lips smile wider.

“Oh yes, husband.”

It’s a voice nearly her own. She still barely recognizes. The words are utterly foreign.

She wishes her sister was here.

As soon as the thought appears, Faustus finds the last pin, squints at it in the dim lamp light.

It gleams blue and silver and ordinary and devastatingly precious. The last line of defense against the battle already lost.

“Zelda...” he tsks in disapproval. “Mortal tradition for a witch such as yourself? I’d thought better of you.”

Shame she doesn’t feel burns her cheeks bright red. The blush pleases her husband. The smile returns.

“You are right, husband, of course. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

She is thinking right now of how satisfying it would be to shove that pin deep into his flesh, so far in he can’t pull it out again.

He holds it out to her.

“Get rid of it.”

She wills that it won’t be so. She thinks as hard as she can, tries forcing her limbs to not move, to kill the nerves if need be and let her hands dangle limp forever. Anything to not get rid of her last semblance of self.

Anything to not get rid of Hilda.

Her fingers don’t shake as they grasp that pretty blue pin. They don’t fumble as they toss the little piece of metal into the trash bin. They don’t even itch to reclaim the gift.

Her body turns, and Faustus is reaching for her.

“Come here.”

The steps to him are automatic and artless. She tries her hardest to shove away. Her arms go around his neck instead.

His hands dwarf her cinched waist. He is leaning so close.

Her eyes stay open.

“Now, isn’t that better?”

Her lips are guileless and wide.

He is descending.

She wants to say no.

“Yes, husband.”

 

~*~

 

She is staring out the window, looking down and seeing so many ant people scuttling to work or to meet their so-and-so’s or to simply scuttle for scuttling’s sake.

She stares at them and envies.

The witching board keeps humming.

Faustus had left her to her own dancing devices in their room, but soon they would be visiting the council. Perhaps she should be grateful she gets to be in that meeting, the dolled-up fly on the wall gathering information she is unable to use. But her feet will ache from standing so long in pinpoint heels, the council’s plan will buzz in her brain and stay trapped there. And she won’t be able to change a damn thing.

That’s the problem with Caligari spells. Her body feels so much, it just doesn’t get to stop.

It doesn’t get to start either.

The witching board keeps humming.

She knows who’s on the line. It could only be one person.

Every time she wills her feet to move toward the board — they simply won’t. She can go over to the couch just fine (and sit primly, because ladies do not slouch), and she can waltz anywhere she likes.

Just not to salvation. Not to her sister’s calling.

So she keeps staring out the window, eyes catching on all the blonde women down there. Imagines that the blonde in the orange knit cardigan is a bit fuller in the bodice, her hair a bit shorter and curling at the ends, her voice a bit softer and lilting British lines. Imagines the woman comes up to her room and takes her hand, leading her out and away. Imagines something sweet.

In reality, the blonde woman meets up with a bearded man. They kiss and walk out of Zelda’s view.

The fantasy ends but she keeps staring.

The witching board keeps humming.

She stares and wants and stays precisely still.

It feels an eternity has passed, and then the board goes silent.

Hilda doesn’t call again.

There’s almost relief when Faustus comes to get her. The ache in her high heeled feet hurts less than the knowledge her sister had needed her and received nothing back.

Anything Zelda is put through now will hurt less than feeling the exact moment Hilda had given up. 

 

~*~

 

Faustus is now interim Anti-Pope.

Interruption at his inauguration.

Angels in Greendale.

Sabrina died. Was resurrected. Resurrected others. Killed angels.

Externally, she smiles and preens and presses gently to her husband’s side. Internally, she worries.

What the _heaven_ is happening with her family?

Faustus declares they’re returning at first light.

A thrum happens, deep inside her body. Worry and chaos will follow, but first this thought:

She’s going home. She’s going to see Hilda.

When Faustus asks if she’s ready, it’s the first time she’s able to answer sincerely.

“I can’t wait.”

 

~*~

 

Hilda looks tired. And worried.

But she’s looking at her and Zelda’s looking back and finally feeling seen.

If she could, her shoulders would sag in relief and in homecoming.

Hilda asks for a moment alone with her. Won’t stop staring as Zelda corrects her and smiles at her and talks of dancing.

Zelda wants to kiss her on the mouth.

It’s a thought that shouldn’t be there, regardless of spells. But for a second, she feels as though she might. She takes a step closer, and Hilda’s throat moves beautifully as she swallows.

This is freedom. She wants more.

The urge gets overwhelmed by the need to reset her music box. She does so with shaky hands.

It’s almost good that she can feel reluctance in her limbs. But then —

One two three, one two three.

Isn’t it a treat?

Vision goes white as she goes sweet.

She over sugars Hilda’s tea.

It alarms her little sister, as well it should.

Zelda’s known her preference for centuries. Could make Hilda’s tea with her eyes closed and hands tied.

“How do you take your tea?”

The question may as well be a neon flashing light of “ _Something’s not right_.”

Because it isn’t.

She wants to scream, throw the whole tray against the wall, somehow force her mind to Hilda’s so her sister finally hears _it’s not me, Hildie. It’s not me and I’m trapped, and I’m scared_.

She doesn’t say any of that, yet the look on the younger witch’s face shows she somehow knows.

As they are called back to Faustus’ office, herded through the academy halls, Hilda leans close to her, body electric as it occasionally brushes against her. Her pinkie pokes out, a pinprick point of fire and comfort on Zelda’s forearm.

“Don’t worry, Zelds. I’ll figure it out, what he’s done to you.”

She believes her.

And even though they’re walking to certain danger, a room full of men plotting their niece and nephew’s deaths, Zelda feels safe.

It’s her and Hilda as a team again. Them against the world.

Just as it should be.

 

~*~

 

“Satan in hell, what am I wearing?”

She’s high on the control of her own body again, feels like she’s breathing for the first time since Italy. Because of this, truth spills out.

 _It was torture_.

She leans closer to Hilda, to comfort and be comforted, and to shield Sabrina from seeing the horror on her younger aunt’s face. They can’t linger on the wounds inflicted. They’ve got an execution to stop.

But Hilda’s got an idea. A good one.

It seems her little sister’s grown a rather large backbone in the time she’s been gone. It’s thrilling and sad.

Zelda tosses her hair back and grabs the still oozing sack of Leviathan, remarks on the things she does for this family as sassily as possible because she’s been quite vulnerable enough for one evening and starts heading back to the Academy.

At the steps, she pauses.

The main hall smells like cinnamon and day-old lilies, and it’s warm and the lights emit such a soft sort of glow.

It’s home, and she doesn’t want to leave.

So she doesn’t.

 

~*~

 

Hilda’s bed is unmade and messy.

It indicates something so much more traumatic than laziness. Hilda’s always made her bed.

Once, in the height of a fever, Hilda had slid to the floor of the living room, practically on top of Vinegar Tom, kissed him on his very wet and goopy nose, and declared that his skin and the rug under his sleepy form was now her new home. She hadn’t moved from her big spoon position for two days.

And still, she’d made sure her bed was pristinely made, right down to the tight hospital corners and the two throw pillows squarely placed just so.

Hilda’s always made her bed.

Seeing it askew now, with the pillows helter-skelter and the sheets pulled loose and sloppy — it feels personally wrong. It feels worlds different.

Zelda has missed so much. She stares at the mess and worries about her little sister.

Hilda has changed without her.

She wonders how, and worries more.

Tearing her gaze away from the messy bed and all it stands for, she stares at the vanity. Feels a rush of reassurance and warmth. At the base of her little stand mirror, Hilda’s kept a packet of her Marlboro’s. There’s only one cigarette missing, and some sister logic in her soul knows that missing cigarette is in Hilda’s sweater pocket.

Hilda has changed, but she still thinks of her big sister. Still needs her.

Zelda thinks on it, the duality of their needing and never saying their needing — sticks a finger in her mouth. Circles the little stand mirror with it and resists the urge to lipstick kiss it. And it’s a good thing she doesn’t, because Hilda is tiptoeing into the room. Squeaks when she sees Zelda standing there.

“Sister?” The question is tentative, like Hilda doesn’t know what she’s asking.

Zelda holds up her cigarette carton.

“I’ve been craving nicotine like you wouldn’t believe.”

She waves the carton again, but she’s only staring at Hilda’s pursed lips. Her little sister is hesitant, calculating, and there’s an awkwardness of unaddressed needs.

Zelda contemplates whether or not Hilda would let her kiss her. But then —

“He didn’t let you smoke?”

She laughs. There’s no semblance of humor in it.

“It’s not what a High Priest’s — _Interim Anti-Pope’s_ wife would do.”

“I see.”

And Hilda is seeing.

Deep. Too deep in Zelda’s eyes and the time she’s been under.

For once, it’s Zelda that’s squirming under a piercing gaze.

“What else didn’t he let you do?”

“What did he do _to_ you?”

The realness of the questions — Zelda’s reality of being Mrs. Blackwood — it’s too much.

“I have to go back to the Academy,” she says quickly, making a hasty retreat.

She’s almost to the door when Hilda asks at her back, so quietly, yet striking the air from Zelda’s lungs.

“Zelds — Zelda, he didn’t...”

She can’t finish her sentence. Zelda doesn’t want her to. Doesn’t look back as she says:

“He did.”

And then she fleas.

 

~*~

 

Being sweet is harder to pretend without being hexed. Zelda is worried for Ambrose, cannot soothe her own brow. But it keeps her from rolling her eyes at Faustus’ pomp and narcissism.

She’s not sure whether the worry helps or hurts.

Her smile pulls till her cheeks hurt. She tilts her head at an angle and proceeds to look dazed and daft, like a cloud drifting aimless and shapeless in an already gray sky.

Zelda remains aloft, and staunchly bland to her family’s presence in this desecrated church.

But Ambrose’ whimpers hurt — her boy is beyond terror.

She trusts Hilda though, not just because she has to. Her sister has her face blank and zipped shut like a coin purse pretending at empty. An extremely believable facade of worry, but Zelda can feel the magic clenching in Hilda’s fists as if they were her own.

It’s a moment so suspended no one breathes. The blade goes down. Blood gushes so dark it’s nearly black. The executioner’s neck spurts and the head rolls.

Ambrose laughs in snotty sobs from his place on the chopping block.

Hilda looks on as though she’s surprised. She hides the garden shears in her sleeve.

Zelda bites her lower lip to contain her smile.

The Spellmans are on the up.

 

~*~

 

Except Faustus is clawing his way through to the top, with Judas backstabbery and medieval misogyny. He would climb the witching world on the very backs of those he’s sworn to lead and protect.

If she hadn’t been so subject to his madness, Zelda would think him to be joking.

But it is indeed Faustus — in the clutches of some personal vendetta he did not seem to have just a few months before.

He is the change she should have anticipated.

She smokes her Marlboro and ponders what happened. She doesn’t know and doesn’t really want to know — what she wants right now is to be home.

So she does the next best thing.

Zelda circles the edge of her mirror with a wetted finger — can’t contain her smile at Hilda because her baby sister is blueing her eyelids at her.

An action of home if there ever was one.

They don’t get to chit or chat; Zelda can only warn Hilda of what’s to come and the steps to take before Faustus walks in.

His frown at her cigarette. She fritters on and applies lipstick. She doesn’t breathe until he’s gone.

Hilda’s still there once he’s left, and her gaze is on the “O” Zelda’s mouth had made.

They’ve got no time for it, but electricity zips through the mirrored connection.

“I’ve missed you.” Hilda confesses.

She makes confessing feelings look easy.

Zelda swallows on a dry throat.

“You’d better get going.”

She doesn’t see her sister again until after she’s held a knife to Prudence Blackwood’s throat and Faustus has her Leticia in his clutches and she is put in prison and then released and escaping home empty handed.

It’s only been one afternoon. So much can happen in only a handful of hours.

 

~*~

 

She comes home to a council member wrapped up in cobwebs and most assuredly dead.

Hilda tentatively clutches at her elbow.

“He was getting handsy.”

Her actions will surely bring the council’s hellfire down upon them.

Zelda’s never been prouder.

Unwelcome ghosts of memory goosebump her skin. Hands she hadn’t been able to fend off caressing an unconsenting body.

She shudders and is glad Hilda had not suffered the same fate.

She’d rather face the council’s ire any day, so long as Hilda stays safe.

They breath deep together, one last buoy in this never-ending storm of chaos.

Then Ambrose and Sabrina are stomping through the front door and calling for them, and the chaos continues.

 

~*~

 

Satan’s been released.

Sabrina’s powerless.

Mary Wardwell is Lilith.

Hilda’s been keeping more secrets from her.

There’s so much happening, Zelda feels as though her head might explode.

One thing is clear:

No one is forcing Sabrina to do anything she does not want to. Not so long as Zelda can still pull breathe into her body.

Not today, Satan.

They fight, and they lose, and they keep fighting.

It’s all they can do.

When Prudence teleports into their house, half-dead sisters clutched to her breast as she hysterically begs for help, they fight for the rest of their coven. They fight against death.

Hilda’s hands are steady as she brews potions and forces coven members to vomit up the poison, holding them as they shiver and writhe and survive.

Zelda can only bring her more witches and warlocks to save, watching as her sister fades a little more with every body brought her way.

Still, Hilda never once stops her crusade — not until there’s no one left for her to help. She collapses near Melvin, hands shaking in her lap, her face nearly as gray as the rest of them.

Zelda sits next to her, clutching a trembling hand in her own. Pure exhaustion sends Hilda’s head to the curve of Zelda’s neck. She bears the weight, turns her head to press a kiss to those sweaty blonde curls.

She wants to tell Hilda kind things, wants to comment on how well she’s done. How strong she’s been this whole time. How proud Zelda is to be her sister.

She just kisses her hair once more and they sag deeper into each other.

The exhaustion is painful.

And still, they must push on.

There’s Sabrina’s coronation to go to, and a plan set in motion.

 

~*~

 

They’ve done it. They’ve won.

Lilith and Nick are gone.

Zelda can hardly believe, can hardly comprehend what’s happened in such a short time.

She’s High Priestess over the Church of... maybe Lilith. Maybe not.

Everything’s gone to heaven.

Their coven’s been decimated to a handful, but it’s her handful to guide and protect.

She hasn’t slept in days.

Hilda’s been avoiding her. Or she’s been avoiding Hilda. Either way, no Hilda in her peripheral. 

She’s clearly not been absent, given there’s a steaming cup of espresso on Zelda’s desk every morning, perfect as only Hilda can make it, but Zelda never sees hide nor hair of her little sister.

She doesn’t know why. She’s not sure she wants to. She skates over memories of the past nightmare of a month, looking for Hilda’s injury with her — instead it’s an instant influx of information she can’t handle.

So she doesn’t handle.

She ignores and carries on and really the coven needs her and it’s wonderful distraction.

She goes to bed at night, staring at the Hilda-sized absence and doesn’t actually sleep because she’s feeling something hollow and achy.

Every morning is a blessing because it brings a new onslaught of problems that aren’t her own.

She keeps busy and slowly empties herself into every task.

The oblivion is bliss.

 

~*~

 

It’s nearly a month of paperwork and High Priestess tasks (and other tasks that mysteriously get done while she’s not looking), that Zelda finally sees Hilda for more than a micro second.

The witching hour in the kitchen, Hilda sits quietly as the silver moon shines down on her through the window.

Zelda feels a deep pang in her ribcage — the heart returning and sitting precariously in her chest, on the kitchen chair. Hilda isn’t wearing makeup tonight. She hiccups quietly.

Zelda’s decanter is nearly empty, gleaming and tempting. Hilda hiccups again.

“Well.” She says.

“Well.” Zelda says.

Dispassionately, Hilda pulls a tea-stained letter from her sweater pocket, tossing it on the table and taking a sip of Zelda’s good bourbon.

Zelda stares and wonders and reads the letter.

“ _Ms. Hilda Spellman,_

 _This is an order of arrest for the murder of—_ “

Zelda drops the letter as if burned. Hilda takes a deeper drink.

“Oh Hildie...” Zelda had been sure she couldn’t feel such worry again, not after they’d literally opened the gates of hell.

Apparently, she’d been wrong.

She stares, aghast, and Hilda is simply shrugging.

“I should have just blown him.”

“ _Hildegard_.”

Only Hilda would have such dark humor at such an inappropriate time.

“Or... other things. A quick one and done.”

Unbidden, images pop behind Zelda’s eyelids.

“Stop it. This isn’t funny.” It’s said almost in a panic.

“It would have made things so much easier.”

Hilda’s eyes are drooped and drunken, and there’s some kind of anger there that Zelda doesn’t understand.

“You don’t know what you’re saying, so just stop.”

“It’s what you would have done.”

The words are dark, and fierce, and judgmental but not at Zelda.

She stares as Hilda stands, messily wipes the back of her hand against bourbon-soaked lips, gaze fierce and cursing internal.

“You would have sucked it up and done what was best for the family. I should have too. But I was selfish. Cowardly. I don’t want anyone else to pay the price for that.”

Zelda’s reach for her is immediate.

“No, Hilda — that’s not what— “

But Hilda’s twisting away from her touch and shaking her head.

“Don’t. I can’t take it.”

The words scald. Hilda sees that, is instantly apologetic but still backing away.

“I’m sorry. It’s not — I just. I don’t deserve comfort. And I won’t take it.  It was only a hand on my knee, and I could have done something different or I should have just _taken it,_ but I didn’t.  And here I am, feeling sorrier for myself than I have any right to. Especially not after everything you’ve gone through...”

Her head snaps up in jerk reaction, Hilda flinches.

So many wounds spread open tonight. There’s not been enough time. Everything hurts like it’s new.

Hilda whimpers out another sorry, and then she disappears, and Zelda is left alone.

 

~*~

 

Hilda avoids her, quite obviously now.

So Zelda sits and stews and waits.

She knows what Hilda needs, doesn’t know how to go about it.

She’s never been good at articulating trauma.

But it’s been too long and she misses her sister. They need to talk.

So she sits, she calculates, and then she makes a plan.

 

~*~

 

On a day she knows Hilda is free, she sends everyone out. Nobody in the house or allowed in the house till tomorrow morning.

She fills her arms up with blankets and pillows and Vinegar Tom’s favorite duvet, takes it all into the parlor. The coven’s been eating almost more than Hilda can cook, but Zelda still manages to rummage the cupboards (and Hilda’s snack freezer in the morgue), sets out a spread decadent enough for a queen or high priestess.

When everything’s the way she wants it, she knocks on Hilda’s door. It’s softer than she’d meant it. She can practically feel her sister’s reluctance, but eventually Hilda opens the door and peeks out.

“Zelda?”

“I have a request.” She fidgets. Is nervous and hates that she’s nervous.

Hilda sees it and steps all the way into the hall. Zelda smiles for the effort and because her sister looks tired and she just cares more than she’s ever been able to say.

“I need a day off.” Zelda starts.

“Okay.” Hilda nods. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to hunker down with me and watch movies with me and eat snacks with me. Like you’ve always suggested to Sabrina, but she never takes you up on it. I’d like to do that today.”

For a second, Hilda’s eyes light up and so does the world. Then—

“You’ve never wanted to before. Why now?”

But she’s already softened to the idea, so Zelda deems it safe to gently take her arm and lead her down the stairs to where a nest of tea cakes and old films wait. All that prep pays off at Hilda’s quiet gasp. Hazel tears fill.

“This is for me. Not you. But I don’t — “

She just settles down, tugs Hilda down too, and hits play on the remote.

She ignores Hilda’s questing gaze and watches the screen. Judy Garland plays silver, and Hilda huffs at being suckered into comfort. Then she follows Zelda’s lead as she always has, and the day grows long and warm and finally, blessedly, soft.

 

~*~

 

Glinda goes witch. Says only bad witches are ugly.

Zelda mutters poppycock. Hilda giggles and makes popcorn.

They eat and watch tv and ignore the tv and gossip and say nothing and doze and stay half awake and finally allow themselves to breathe. They bring out Zelda’s good bourbon and imbibe till the room is swaying gently and curling hazy around the edges. 

Zelda’s propped up against the foot of the couch and Hilda’s head rests against her thigh. She plays with the soft blonde ringlets as her sister makes offhand comments about the intricacies of gingham costumes and sequins. Eventually, she catches on a tangle and Hilda looks up at her with a pout in her eyes and a tease on her lips.

Without further ado, Zelda leans down and kisses her.

It’s as soft as the setting sun, gloaming low and coating everything in its light of contentment.

Hilda sighs to it, humming her pleasure, raspberry tongue tip running along the sharp edges of Zelda’s teeth, gasping as they teasingly bite down. Her hands rise up to tangle in Zelda’s mussed hair, stroking the tendons along her neck, dusting against sharp collarbones, gentle and kind and giving.

There’s no magic in the touch, but it’s healing. All consuming.

Zelda kisses Hilda and gets lost in it.

It’s only when she can’t find breath that she pulls up, reluctance clear. She gazes down, and Hilda is smiling.  She reaches to glide a finger along the curve of Zelda’s nose, tickling the dipped ridge between nose and lip, her own nose wrinkling as Zelda’s teeth catch the pad of her index finger.

“Ow.”

“Don’t be overdramatic.”

A childish huff puffs out of those perfect bow lips and it’s such a good look on Hilda, rumpled and indignant and so damnably cute — Zelda kisses her again and drinks in the happy. 

“I’m supposed to be taking care of _you_ ,” Hilda breathes against her mouth. 

Zelda kisses her once, twice for good measure, and mutters, “stuff and nonsense. You’re not.”

“I _am_.”

“Who’s the older sister here?”

A pause. Hilda bites her lip and Zelda tries not to feel jealous.

“Who’s going to take care of you after I’ve faced the council?”

Zelda swallows hard. This is not the direction she was hoping the night would take.

“Nothing’s going to happen to you, you hear me. You’re going to be fine.”

“We both know that’s not true.” Hilda’s eyes are far calmer than they have any right to be. “I’m guilty till proven innocent, but nothing could prove that. I killed Methuselah. I know what’s coming to me. And all because I couldn’t grit my teeth and bear it.”

“ _No_ , Hilda.” Zelda’s vehemence startles her. “He shouldn’t have done that. You were right to react that way.”

It’s clear she doesn’t believe her, or thinks Zelda’s just trying to make her feel better.  She stands, most likely to leave, and Zelda won’t have it.

She grabs her little sister’s wrist, tugs her insistently down.  Hilda pulls away, and instinct from years of fighting kicks in. They both struggle and grapple on opposing ends till Hilda’s back on the floor and Zelda’s straddling her so she can’t escape.

It’s familiar and slightly unpleasant, but this time it’s different, because Zelda is the one asking her to stop, telling her to calm down. Telling her it’s alright. She’s okay.

Zelda’s hands are around her face, not her neck, and she’s being so gentle.  Hilda nearly cries, and for once she doesn’t know how to process the reasons why. 

“I was weak,” she whispers, eyes filling.

“You _weren’t_.”

“You would have handled it better. You’ve had to deal with so much more.”

“It’s not a competition.”

For once, she means it. Hilda is disbelieving anyway. 

Zelda sits up, a hand swiping up to fix her hair and put her thoughts in order. 

“I refuse to be held accountable for what was done to me. I refuse your guilt at things you felt _should_ have been done to you. None of it was right.”

Hilda sits up too, looking wounded and quite a bit flushed.

“That’s _not_ what I meant.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“I’d never hold anything Faustus did against you. It was never your fault.”

“And you blame yourself for Methuselah’s actions _because?_ ”

Hilda sags as she sees Zelda’s logic. Her head falls to her older sister’s shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

Zelda gathers her up in her arms, hugs her close, and simply holds on.

They hold together. 

For a moment, nothing hurts.

Memories pass.

Everything is still.

 

~*~

 

The sun has fully set and the moon has taken up residence up in the dark blue when the Spellman sisters finally turn off the TV set and head to bed. 

Zelda washes her face. Hilda rubs in homemade lotion. They are oddly formal as they bid each other goodnight. 

The vulnerability before was too much and not enough, and now they both feel the gap. 

When they turn off the lights, the darkness coats their raw edges. The veil descends.

Hilda slips under Zelda’s covers like a fish to water.

Zelda grumbles, as though she’s not immediately melting into her sister’s shape. As though Hilda’s not taking care of her so well without having to say a word. 

Hilda hums, long fingers carding soft and slow in Zelda’s hair.

“I may kick.” Zelda warns, because today has been tender and a night of unwarned thrashing may ruin the mood.

“I don’t care.” Hilda sighs.

She receives a kiss on the neck for it. She wiggles and slots their knees more comfortably together.

Silence sits on them like heavy down, lush and lulling. 

Then, a tentative “when you do kick, will we talk about it?”

“Perhaps.”

“You’ll let me take care of you?”

She smiles in the darkness.

“I’m sure you’ll find a way, regardless of me letting you.”

Hilda snorts, and it’s loud, and Zelda’s never felt so full from such an undignified sound. 

“Damn straight.”

For the first time in weeks, Zelda falls asleep quickly.

She doesn’t dream at all. 

 

~*~

 

Days pass. Weeks. They no longer avoid each other.

Zelda teaches classes and does paperwork and holds her flock together. 

Hilda holds down the mortuary, holds everyone’s hunger at bay, visits the Academy for lunch. 

Hilda’s warrant for arrest hangs over their heads, but as time stretches on and no one comes for her, it becomes a distant thought.  A dark cloud on a gloomy day. 

On those days, they sip bourbon and bicker about movie witches and whether or not sequins are appropriate costume accessories. 

On those nights, Hilda will slip into Zelda’s bed and not mention the bruises forming on her shins from unconscious kicks. 

Sometimes those days and nights don’t happen, and Hilda slips in anyway.

The nights she doesn’t slip in, Zelda does instead.

In the morning it’s never mentioned, and the sisters go about their day like it doesn’t happen.

But occasionally Zelda will look at Hilda and watch as she goes cherry red. Occasionally Hilda will brush against Zelda and hear her sigh.  Occasionally gazes will meet and match something like ardency.

These occasions are never mentioned either.

 

~*~

 

A day of grading papers and pouring over written coven affairs sags Zelda’s shoulders in exhaustion. Her feet hurt and there’s a knot in her lower back that won’t loosen no matter how she stretches.

Her eyes flutter for a second (and it is only a second, because Zelda Spellman does _not_ doze), when there’s a commotion outside her office doors. A soft British lilt going low and irate, a teenager’s voice going high and raised. A very distinct “ _Oi!_ ” before Zelda’s pushing open the doors to the sight of Hilda ranting against one Dorcas Night.

Hilda’s usually kind features are furrowed and full of ire, and she’s using all of her five feet and two inches to intimidate Dorcas’ five foot seven.

Baffled, it’s all Zelda can do to dismiss Dorcas to her dorm and hustle Hilda to the quiet of her office.

“What in _heaven_ ,” is all she manages to say before Hilda blurts out —

“She was complaining about you! As if a coven should instantly recover overnight! As if you aren’t the best damn High Priestess or leader this coven has ever seen!”

Hilda rants, pacing back in forth in her matronly shoes, so ready to throw hands with a teenager for having a teenager’s disposition.

As she rails against the disrespect shown towards Zelda’s person, affection swells deep in Zelda’s chest. Lust pools a little deeper, a little lower.

She does so love her little sister’s protective streak.

Hilda’s two paragraphs into the attitudes of traumatized children when Zelda grabs her by the hip, spins her around, and kisses her fervently on the mouth.

Hilda melts.

She leans to the form of her sister, humming at the taste of Zelda’s late-night coffee tongue, before she remembers she’s supposed to be mad and pulls away a fraction.

“Wait —“ she breathes, even as her hands wind around Zelda’s neck, fingers twining through the wisps of baby hair at the nape. “Not that I’m not into it, and I’m definitely _not_ complaining, but what spurred this?”

Zelda nuzzles her neck, the fine tip of her nose tracing the vein there. She feels how Hilda shivers and grins against that sun-kissed skin.

“You take care of me so well.”

“Oh.”

She can practically taste Hilda’s gulp.

“Okay.”

White teeth scrape a pulse, there’s a whine high and keening in her sister’s throat.

“Shall I continue?” She mouths against the vibrations.

“Please.”

And then Hilda’s cupping her chin and bringing her up and they’re kissing and it’s quite honestly Zelda’s new favorite thing in the whole universe.

Hilda tastes like righteous indignation and peach jam.

She drinks her in and can’t get enough. She grabs fistfuls of Hilda’s bulky sweater, holding tight to keep herself grounded as she gets swept up by Hilda.

“I need a minute,” Hilda gasps against her. “My legs are gonna give out.”

Head swimming, tongue tingling, she laughs and guides them backwards. Sits down hard on her wooden chair, pulls Hilda down with her to straddle her lap. Hilda’s thighs are warm and hug her hips so snuggly, Zelda could stay like this for years. A full eternity.

“Better?” She teases. Hilda’s already diving down to meet her mouth again.

“Much.” She breathes, then they share breath.

Hilda rocks against her, white flashes of desire zip up her spine. She clutches her sweater, scrabbles to pull it up so she can latch hold on the perfect shape of Hilda’s pert little ass through her skirts. She receives a pretty gasp and Hilda’s hips rolling against hers for the effort. Her cunt throbs, she burrows her face deep in the V of Hilda’s dress and kisses as much skin as she’s able.

“I’ve dreamed about this.” She murmurs against exquisite tits.

Lust loosens her filter, lets her be honest.

Hilda sighs, grinds down on her thighs.

“Oh Zelda. I need you inside me. Now.”

“ _Hildegard_. How bold of you. How _scandalous_.”

Hilda growls, still riled from her earlier argument, wanton and needy and so pent up from desire she just might burst. She bites Zelda’s lip, sharp teeth nearly puncturing the tender flesh of it, and it’s Zelda who moans deep and guttural.

“Shut up Zelds. Please, just. _Fuck_ me.”

Zelda laughs and shows mercy, already bunching up Hilda’s skirts and reaching under.

“Believe it or not,” She can’t stop grinning as Hilda helps hold up her clothes and Zelda’s fingers skim the waistband of her knickers.

“I’ve dreamed about this too.”

 

 

~*~

 

Hilda above her.

Writhing.

Bearing down on her fingers.

A glory.

Open and glistening and so full of trust. So full of her.

When Hilda comes, clamps down around her, she swears heaven can’t be more satisfactory.

Zelda’s seen an angel in the flesh, seen the depths of hell, and yet she still knows.

Nothing will ever be more divine than Hilda like this.

 

~*~

 

After a marvelous, heaving moment, Hilda sits back. Slides down to the floor, presses a kiss of thanks to Zelda’s knee.

She giggles, and when Zelda reaches to help her up, she just giggles harder.

Zelda props her elbow on the chair’s arm, fists her sticky fingers and props up her chin. She looks on in fond amusement.

“Salem got your tongue?” She drawls. Hilda snorts.

“You are far too good at that. All of it. Honestly can’t move my legs. Utterly useless.”

Zelda grins and fails not to preen. Hilda rests her head on the previously kissed knee, and the thudding ache in Zelda’s cunt rages loud, demanding to be paid attention.

“I hope you won’t be useless for too long.” She’s trying to seem nonchalant, but the neediness in her tone gives her away.

Hilda’s eyes twinkle mischievous. She presses another kiss to Zelda’s knee. Desire blazes.

“I need you.”

Suddenly, there’s hesitance.

“You sure?”

“I just said so.”

Hilda bites her lip, her desire clear, but still she holds back.

Zelda’s about to be angry, about to be hurt, but then she realizes.

Even in this haze, Hilda’s looking out for her. Worrying about what’s haunting her.

She leans over, kisses her softly.

“There are no ghosts here, Hildie. It’s only you and me.”

Hilda raises up, kisses her back. The action more tender than anything she’s been given before. Emotion pinches the corners of her eyes as Hilda reaches around her, hands kneading knots from her lower back even as she kisses the front of her stomach.

Once the tension is finally massaged out, she’s being pulled to the edge of her seat, Hilda holding her steady as she plants openmouthed kisses on her thighs. They go up and up, blooming heat, a tongue occasionally lathing affection on marbled muscle. Zelda’s got grip on an arm rest and Hilda’s hair, eyes closed as she experiences what it feels like to be adored. Treasured. Loved.

Hilda’s mouth meets her folds, suckles on her clit, and Zelda’s entire world tapers down to that point of connection.

Both hands tangle into gold curls, her back arches as Hilda’s tongue slips and thrusts into her. She’s going to be sore again tomorrow, but this time she’s confident Hilda and her magic fingers will fix her.

“More. Oh sweet, sister mine, please. More.”

Hilda acquiesces. Fingers join her tongue, and when she asks for even more there’s a thumb on her clit rubbing in quick, steady strokes.

Zelda comes in waves, riding Hilda’s tongue. Bliss hits hard, and she’s nearly afraid she’ll be swept away by it, but there’s a warm hand on her thigh keeping her tethered. She hears Hilda encouraging softly to just let go, so she does.

And then it’s just her and Hilda, and pleasure and intimacy and something so healing she couldn’t describe it if she tried.

And there’s this precious knowledge — they’re both here, and both whole.

It’s them in this moment.

It’s just them.

It’s everything.

 

~*~

 

It doesn’t get easier.

Hilda’s shins stay bruised from nightmare-induced kicks. 

Zelda stays wary for when dark clouds start to hang around Hilda’s head.

But it gets better.

They stay together.

And it is more than enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for your patience!  
> i'm so sorry for the long wait and long chapter.  
> i tried navigating a wonky finale - made for wonky writing.  
> so the finale slayed me - what'd'ya gonna do?  
> regardless - thank you so much for waiting and being encouraging and so kind  
> y'all are wonders

**Author's Note:**

> i think i'll write another chap of the babes before/after zelda's wedding  
> and then i'll go back to finishing my other three fics ;p  
> let me know if there's anything from s2 you'd like me to include, or potentially see explored!  
> praise lilith ;)


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